Talk
by Under0The0Sea
Summary: A dispirited Sherlock Holmes goes to his brother for advice as to what to do next in life. Still having problems with formatting so if it shows up as all underlined or something please let me know!


_Actually started writing meaning to continue with Rocking Around the Christmas Tree (part of my Season's in the Sun fic for those who don't know), __instead my muse comes up with this…_

__

Based on 'Talk' by Coldplay.

* * *

'_Oh brother I can't, I can't get through,_

_I've been trying hard to reach you cos I don't know what to do'_

_

* * *

_

Mycroft Holmes put the newspaper down on the table next to him and gave a world-weary sigh. The clock informed him that it was eleven pm which, no matter how you looked at it, was an inconvenient time for visitors. He closed his eyes, leant back in his chair and tried to pretend there was no-one at the door. Only when the loud knocking reached a crescendo of deafening bangs did Mycroft get up and open the door.

He barely had time to register that it was Sherlock before his younger brother had swept past him and into his rooms. Scarcely concealing a groan - he didn't have the time to deal with family matters - Mycroft slowly shut the door and turned. In the limited time that Sherlock had had while Mycroft had been closing the door, Sherlock had managed to discard his coat and hat (both dripping wet) onto the floor, help himself to a cigarette and place himself slumped in Mycroft's best chair by the fire. Resisting the urge to sigh, Mycroft crossed the room to sit opposite his sibling.

"Whatever do you want at this late hour Sherlock?" he asked. Surprise flitted across Sherlock's face; no doubt he expected Mycroft to drag up all the issues that the two had had over the past years. But Mycroft was in no mood for arguments; he wanted Sherlock in and out as quickly as possible and if that meant temporarily swallowing his pride and acting like the years of disputes had never happened then that was what he would have to do.

"I did write. Several times." Sherlock commented in a rather non sequitur fashion, "You never replied." Mycroft glanced guilty at the mountain of unopened correspondence on his desk. He had been so busy of late that the only letters he bothered opening were those that bore the government's seal.

"I've been busy." It was a poor excuse and they both knew it. If Mycroft truly had wanted, he could have made time for his sibling.

"I think I also sent a telegram." Sherlock commented. Mycroft remembered that one. It had been imperious and commanding, demanding his attention immediately. At the time, however, the government were working on a campaign for the upcoming election and consequently he had put Sherlock's urgent summons down to melodrama on Sherlock's part and continued trying to get through a seemingly never-ending pile of paperwork.

"I meant to reply." Mycroft admitted, "I just haven't had the time."

"Perhaps I should get a job in the government. Maybe then I'll be worthy of your attention." Mycroft closed his eyes wearily.

"What is it exactly that you are doing with yourself at the moment?" he almost snapped. To his surprise - and very little surprised Mycroft - Sherlock looked down at the floor.

"Actually that's sort of what I wanted to talk to you about."

* * *

'_I'm so scared about the future and I want to talk to you'_

_

* * *

_

"I don't know what to do Mycroft."

"I'd suggest not repeating your little sojourn into the Thames; I don't even want to think about what's in it." Sherlock glanced at his attire and shrugged.

"It was an experiment."

"Aren't you a little to old to still be using that as an excuse Sherlock? Besides what with your need to now find suitable accommodation and a means of income I would have thought there was precious little time for you to be gallivanting around carrying out 'experiments'" Sherlock bristled slightly.

"It's irrelevant anyway as you know as well as I do that that's not what I meant."

"Pray enlighten me then." Mycroft said dryly. Sherlock stood and went over to gaze out of the window at the dark street which was lit at intervals by the soft orange glow of the street lamps, and at the few stumbling individuals who walked quickly down the street in a doomed attempt to get home before the driving rain soaked them to the skin.

"What's the point?" Sherlock asked "Life is so dull. There is no interest in anything. Those people; all they do is go through life in a daze. They grow up have children and then die. What's the point in that? There is nothing to show for their lives. They achieve nothing."

"What about Galileo? Newton? You cannot argue that they achieved nothing."

"No I cannot. But you cannot deny that it is more than likely they will all be proved wrong in a few years and their life's work will have been for nothing." Sherlock shrugged and wandered back to his seat a defeated expression on his face.

* * *

'_In the future where will I be?'_

_

* * *

_

"So what am I supposed to do? There's nothing, Mycroft. When I was a child I used to be bored so often and I used to think that things would be better when I was an adult. I thought there would be so much to learn, so many interesting things to discover that I'd never be bored again. But anything that's interesting to me is irrelevant to any occupation and consequently worthless. And everything else is dull. There's nothing, nothing in this world worth occupying myself with."

"Oh I wouldn't say that." Mycroft answered snidely "there is always the cocaine bottle." Sherlock's ivory complexion took on an angry flush.

"I knew it. I knew we couldn't have one conversation without you bringing that up."

"It's a terrible, pointless hobby Sherlock. You know the negative effects of continuous use and yet you still insist on -"

"Without the drug I would have died of boredom by now!" Sherlock almost yelled.

"Oh do not be so over-dramatic Sherlock." said Mycroft curtly. Sherlock stood.

"I came to you for help but if all you're going to do is lecture me-"

"Fine." Mycroft replied angrily, "Fine." he said again a little more gently. Sherlock took a moment to gage Mycroft's mood and then sat back down again.

"I just want to know what to do next." Sherlock said tiredly. Mycroft examined his brother.

"You always ignored my suggestions." he commented.

"I was young;" Sherlock paused and smiled slightly, "and more arrogant. And when I was younger I always knew where I was going next. Now, I don't know. I just don't know."

"There is no occupation that appeals to you?"

"None."

"Then perhaps you should consider a less traditional way to earn a living."

* * *

'_Or do something that's never been done.'_

_

* * *

_

"Are you suggesting I join a circus?" Sherlock asked dryly.

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock. As if I would allow, let alone encourage, a brother of mine join a circus."

"Then what do you mean?"

"That perhaps you should take your interests and create an occupation for yourself that would satisfy these interests."

"What job could I possibly create for myself using _my _interests?" Sherlock asked with interest but also with incredulity.

"Well I hardly know. I have not the faintest idea what you are interested in anymore." Sherlock winced at the not so subtle reminded that it had been three years since they last spoke.

"I thought you were abandoning me." Sherlock said resuming his non sequitur way of talking.

"When?"

"When you took the job in London. You were the only one who sees the world the same way I do and you left. After that I thought it would be better to avoid emotions completely. Better by far to see the world logically, clearly without emotions clouding the picture."

"And how is that working out for you?" Sherlock didn't reply. Neither of them spoke and the room was silent save for the steady ticking of the clock.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said at length.

"For what?"

"For being an arrogant fool."

"You were young."

"That's not an excuse."

"It's a significantly better excuse than 'I've been busy.'" Sherlock looked the tottering pile of envelopes on Mycroft's desk.

"You can't help being busy." Mycroft gave a dry, humourless laugh.

"No, I guess I can't."

"So you suggest that I should create a profession for myself?" Sherlock asked. He couldn't help admitting that it was a good idea although he was currently at a loss to imagine what job his particular interests and limits would lead him too.

"Or you could become a writer." Mycroft said with a glint in his eye "You have a dramatic flair and, when you choose, a way with words that I am sure the masses would greatly enjoy." Sherlock gave his brother an unadulterated glare.

"I will never become a write of romanticised fiction. I would rather have no means of income at all." Mycroft laughed.

"Well I am sure you will not find yourself where you'd have to make that choice. And as to what you should do, providing you do not carry out you're earlier threat and join the government, I am sure that you will be fine in whatever career path you choose." Sherlock couldn't help but notice the edge of bitterness in his brother's voice.

* * *

'_Well I feel like they're talking in a language I don't speak_

_And they're talking it to me'_

* * *

"I thought you loved politics."

"I did." Sherlock immediately caught onto his brothers use of past tense.

"So?"

"So, what?" asked Mycroft irritably.

"So what changed?" Mycroft glared at Sherlock for a split-second and then sighed and stared into the fire.

"I started work." Sherlock waited, hardly daring to breathe. For the first time in many years, possibly ever, Mycroft was talking to Sherlock as if they were on the same level. The slight patronising, condescending edge had gone; although Sherlock couldn't discern whether that was because Mycroft had grown up or because he had.

"I'm one of the youngest people to ever enter the government, probably the youngest, and I suppose that is quite an achievement. But that does not make the job anymore interesting. It is so different to how I thought it would be.

The politicians are so condescending and arrogant and they all speak using abbreviations and complicated slang and I still do not understand what the majority of it means. And it is so frustrating because most of the decisions they are making are so counter-productive but they do not listen when I try to tell them.

Occasionally though someone will listen and realise that what I'm saying does make sense but then they will pretend it was their idea all along. And I cannot contest it because no one would believe me.

And there is so much corruption in the government. It is as though they are all just waiting for an opportunity to turn traitor or to stab a college or a friend in the back; even those within the same party."

* * *

'_In the future where will I be?'_

* * *

"I can't imagine what it must be like." Sherlock said with an uncharacteristic shred of sympathy in his voice.

"I do not know if I can carry on working within the government. But I have always wanted to work in the government I do not know what else I would do."

* * *

'_Or do something that's never been done.' _

* * *

"Maybe you should take your own advice."

"My own advice?"

"If you really want to continue to work in the government then you should 'take your interests and create an occupation for yourself'."

"Oh how terrible it is to have your own words thrown back at you."

"I'm trying to help!" Sherlock replied indignantly.

"I know. But you do not understand how the government works; I cannot just create a position for myself. It takes many years to gain the trust of the politicians and prove your abilities sufficiently enough to ascend in the political hierarchy."

"But your abilities far surpass that of all those other fools who work in the government. The ones with no talent as the ones who have to go through the hierarchy. Why don't you use that annoying habit of yours of remembering every detail of every slight against you and your ability to then calculate if and when to exact revenge for said slight. Surely even the government could not ignore the benefits of a talent like that if it was applied nationally."

"Sherlock that's actually not a too terrible idea."

"Why do you sound so surprised? I know I do not quite possess your intellect but I do have intelligence enough to come up with a at least half decent idea."

"Occasionally." Mycroft admitted. The brothers fell into silence again, although this time it was a considerably warmer silence.

* * *

'_Nothing's really making any sense at all_

_Let's talk, let's talk.' _

* * *

"It doesn't make sense." Sherlock commented suddenly.

"Many things do not make sense Sherlock, which in particular are you currently referring to?"

"It doesn't make sense that the government is filled with pompous fools who cannot recognise that they would benefit so much from your intelligence. It doesn't make sense that someone who is as talented as I should find it impossible to find anything that interests me."

"It does not make sense." Mycroft agreed, "but that is how the world works." Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. The fire was warm and the chair was comfortable not at all like his own rooms.

"You look even more anaemic than usual. Are you remembering to eat?" Mycroft asked.

"Yes I'm remembering to eat. It's been a long day that's all."

"I surmised that when I saw that you'd fallen into the Thames."

"Fell? I never said I fell."

"No you said it was an experiment. The slight rip in your shirt sleeve, the dirt marks on your trousers and the grazes on your arm tell me otherwise." Sherlock sighed realising that it was useless trying to hide things from his perceptive brother, a lesson that perhaps should have stayed with him from his childhood.

"Yes I fell. Although once I was in the river I wondered how long it would be until someone decided to help me."

"So you decided to test this by floundering about in the river until someone attempted to rescue you."

"In essence, yes."

"Honestly Sherlock you should be more careful, you could have caught pneumonia. Incidentally stop pricking yourself with needles every time you need a blood sample, you'll end up poisoning yourself."

"I'm very careful." sniffed Sherlock.

"I'm sure you are." relied Mycroft yawning. Sherlock glanced at the clock, and noted how late it was.

"I should go." Sherlock said, standing. He retrieved his coat and hat from the floor where he had deposited them earlier.

"You know that if you ever need anything you can ask me." Mycroft said as Sherlock walked towards the door. Sherlock turned.

"Now that you mention it; could you lend me some money?"

"So you didn't come here for advice? I thought it was a little uncharacteristic of you." Mycroft demanded accusingly, standing and turning to face his brother.

"I did!" protested Sherlock defensively, "but since you're offering and my landlady's threatening to kick me out and you said yourself that you wouldn't want me to join a circus -"

"Sherlock can we talk about this in the morning?" asked Mycroft wearily cutting Sherlock off.

"But-"

"I am far too tired to talk about money now."

"But I-"

"I'm not saying you can't have the money-"

"But Mycroft I-"

"Sherlock get _out_!" Mycroft almost yelled, resorting to measures he hadn't used since he was a teenager, Sherlock, shocked into obeying as Mycroft had predicted, left Mycroft's rooms with a sigh.

* * *

'_And I will try to fix you.' _

For the first time in months Sherlock gave a true smile.

For the first time in months Mycroft gave a true smile.

* * *

**Nb 1.** If you didn't quite get the context (reading it back, I realise it was beyond subtle) Sherlock has come out of uni and has realised he has no idea what to do with his life and so attempts to contact his brother through letters and telegrams. Mycroft ignores him as he's busy with his job and after a particularly hard day Sherlock snaps and goes to see his brother.

**Nb 2.** I have little to no idea how the government and politics works now let alone in the 1800's so everything written about the government and Mycroft's job I completely made up. You can probably tell. But hey, it's called an artistic licence, right?

**Nb 3. **The words in italics and quotation marks are all from the song 'Talk' by Coldplay except the last line which is from 'Fix You' (also by Coldplay) and so belong to Coldplay not me (unfortunately as I think they are beautifully written songs)

* * *

_Very, very out of character I think, but my muse insisted and who am I to argue with her. After all she controls the inspiration for my writing so I'd rather not get on the wrong side of her. Besides it was quite a sweet brotherly fic and despite the out of characterness I quite like it so *shrugs*_

_I'm not too convinced on some parts though but I'm way to tired to go back to them right now. If it annoys me too much in the future I might edit it a bit. _

_Reviews are always greatly appreciated. I hoped you liked it. _

_Thanks for reading. _


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